


TGI Feardays

by Spudster2007 (Wotwotleigh)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester UST, Other, Potatoes, TGI Fridays, potato skins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-31 19:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12689148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wotwotleigh/pseuds/Spudster2007
Summary: Dean and Sam face their most loaded challenge yet.





	1. Chapter 1

_“Oh God,” groaned Mackenzie, dropping her head onto her steering wheel in exasperation. “I’d forget my own butt if it wasn’t attached.” She turned the wheel sharply, bringing her 2007 Hyundai Sonata around on the rain-slicked road and heading back into the TGIF parking lot._

_She jumped out of her car and slammed the door, quietly cursing herself. A single street light flickered. Mackenzie trotted to the back entrance, glancing around anxiously. Charlie’s car was still in the lot. Good._

_Mackenzie pounded on the door. “Charlie?” No answer. “God damn it.” She pounded harder. “Charliiie, I know you’re still in there. Can you let me in? I forgot my purse . . . again.”_

_Except for the electric whine of the lone street light, it was disturbingly quiet. Mackenzie shivered. She couldn’t even hear any night insects. “Seriously, Charlie? Are you gonna make me find my key?”_

_She fumbled with her keyring in the darkness, finally finding the chunky master key. After a brief struggle with the lock, she was inside. It was dark in there, too._

_“Charlie?” she whispered, slowly pushing open the door to the kitchen._

_It hit her, then: an overpowering smell of starch, followed by the salt-metallic scent of blood. Mackenzie screamed._

\---

“I’m not overreacting!” Sam snarled through gritted teeth, slamming his fist on the night stand. The lamp wobbled dangerously. Sam didn’t care. His brother’s indifference infuriated him. 

“Whatever,” mumbled Dean, pushing out his luscious lips in a disinterested moue. He didn’t look up from his notes. “Talk to me when you have something I can work with.” 

Sam paced furiously. “Seven deaths at seven TGI Fridays’ in Clayton County in as many days? That’s not something you can work with? Well, how about this? Is this something you can work with?” He pulled a handful of potato skins out of his pocket and slapped them wetly onto Dean’s open notebook. 

Dean’s head snapped up. “What the—what the hell is this, Sam?” 

Sam’s mouth was a hard line of grim satisfaction. Had his attention now, huh? “Potato skins, Dean.” 

“Yes, I can see that, Sam. Why are they on my notes?” 

“Kennebecs, Dean! Friggin’ Kennebecs!” 

“Yeah? And?” 

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Sometimes I can’t believe you, Dean. You know what TGIF potato skins are made of, right?” 

“Potato . . . skins?” 

“You know what I’m asking.” 

Dean leaned back and folded his well-muscled arms across his broad, manly chest, flattered by his form-fitting sweater. His gorgeous lips quirked wryly. “Why don’t you educate me, College Boy?” 

“We’ve been to every TGIF location in the Midwest. You know what they use in every one of ‘em?” He punctuated each word with a hard jab of his finger into the now moist and grainy paper of Dean’s notebook. “Idaho—Russets—Dean.” 

“Yeah, okay. And this is supposed to prove . . . what? Maybe they’re using ‘em for their soups. They’ve got a killer loaded potato broc—” 

“No, Dean. I already looked into this. While you were in here moping over your stupid notes, I went to the location on Clarke Avenue. Kitchen was littered with these. And you and I _both_ know the Clarke Ave. location doesn’t carry the loaded potato broc.” 

Dean sighed and pouted sensuously. Sam could see what was going through his mind. _College Boy has a point._ “Fine,” said Dean. “Your lead, your hunt. What do we do?” 

“Head to Clarke Avenue. If I’m wrong, we have a few drinks and some loaded potato skins. If I’m right . . .” 

“Hoookay. Yep. Let’s go. Still think it’s nothing,” grunted Dean, tossing his starch-smeared notebook aside and cracking his knuckles behind his back. 

“Whatever,” said Sam, turning his face away to hide his crooked grin. 

\--- 

Dean and Sam sped down Main Street in the Impala. Dean glowered at the road, his succulent lips pushed out thoughtfully. “I really don’t get your fixation on this whole thing, Sam.” 

Sam sighed. “Do we have to go through this again? You know how I feel about TGIF. It’s one of the few good memories I have of our time with Dad. TGI Friday’s on Tuesdays, remember? It was our _thing_ , Dean. No matter how bad the hunts got. Dad would always . . .” He stared out the window, the wind ruffling his hair, his eyes prickling dangerously. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember. We _did_ go to TGIF every Tuesday, Sam.” Dean paused, then abruptly rounded on Sam, slamming on the brakes, his luxurious lips quivering with barely restrained emotion. The Impala’s engine purred with dissatisfaction. “And then YOU went to college, to pursue some fancy-pants degree in . . . in . . .” 

Sam’s chin quivered. “Potato horticulture, Dean. I did it for _you_. I did it for the _family_.” 

Dean looked away. “Yeah,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet. “That’s right. For the family.” 

Sam sniffed. “Your turn’s coming up.” 

“I know,” said Dean huskily. “I’ve been here before.” 

There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by the hum of the engine. 

“So,” said Sam, forcing his voice to sound brighter, “what do you think we’re dealing with?” 

The wind howled distantly. Dean paused, biting his plush bottom lip before answering. “I don’t know. But if you’re right, and there _is_ something supernatural behind all this . . . we’re gonna find it, and we’re gonna take it out. Together.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Impala pulled into the TGIF parking lot, its engine purring at a low and restless hum before coming to an awkward stop in between two white Toyota trucks. Dean pulled the keys from the ignition and adjusted the collar of his hurriedly thrown together suit with a distant, pursed-lip intensity. Sam continued to study their father’s old diary, looking for any clues. 

“Kennebecs . . .” he quietly mouthed under his breath, flitting through the weathered pages with an ever-increasing frustration. Nothing and more nothing. It was ridiculous. After over a decade of chasing some of the worst and weirdest the world had to offer, he knew his dad had to have been on some case which involved aberrant vegetation. But beyond a short blurb on a Cambodian Beet Sucker that had made its way up into Louisiana, nothing had even remotely come close. And, needless to say, beets are no potatoes. The mere thought of even having them in the same culinary weight class brought a wry smile to Sam's face. 

“Yo—Space Cadet!” Dean said, snapping his fingers in front of his brothers face, forcefully pulling him out of his tuber-induced reverie. “We’re here.”  
Sam’s eyes came back into focus, glancing from Dean to the reassuring architecture of the TGIF. The third best in the county, by Sam’s estimates. It was rated first on Yelp, but if there was one thing Sam knew, it was what made for a good TGIF. Namely, friendly service, quality ingredients, and most importantly: the potato skins. This particular TGIF had done well in the first two categories overall, but had let Sam down in the last. And as far as Sam was concerned, if a TGIF couldn’t get that right, what was the point? 

“Okay,” Sam nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt, and flicking a stray hair out of his vision. He then opened the door and almost immediately hit the 1998 Toyota Tacoma outside. “Hey, um, dude. You parked me in,” Sam called out to Dean, who was already outside, pulling on a pair of sunglasses to complete the G-Man look his monochrome suit had started. 

Dean glanced back at Sam before pulling his luscious lips into a sly smirk. “You’ll figure it out,” Dean said, starting to walk towards the entrance, flitting through his pocket to make sure he’d grabbed the correct fake badge—in this case, the credentials for an FSIS Food inspector.  
“Dean! Dean!” Sam called ineffectually after him, sighing to himself before trying to fit his heavily muscled frame through the narrow gap between the Impala and the adjacent Tacoma. 

\--- 

By the time Sam made his way inside, Dean was already working his magic on the hostess. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, his heart thudding in his well-muscled chest. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

Sam stumbled up to the desk, grinning. “Hi,” he said, and then winced internally. _Lame, Sam._

Her wide, violet eyes flickered shyly in his direction. Her lips, the color of pink Désirée potatoes, formed a tremulous smile. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was soft, but slightly husky. 

Dean glanced up at Sam and sighed, his gorgeous lips quirking into a resigned smirk. “This is my partner, Murray Cook. Murray, this is Mackenzie Doyle. Murray was already by earlier this week. Think he’s got some questions for you.” Dean stepped away from the hostess’s counter, clapping Sam hard on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he muttered. 

“Hi,” said Sam again. _Damn it!_

“So you guys are from the FSIS?” said Mackenzie softly, brushing aside an errant lock of hair the color of a Yukon Gold. “I didn’t know we were due for an inspection.” 

“We like to pay a surprise visit from time to time,” said Dean. “Keeps the franchise owners on their toes. As far as I’m concerned, you guys are doing an . . . ample job. But Sam here saw something he wanted to follow up on. Just procedural stuff, nothing to worry about.” 

An awkward silence followed. Sam was staring at Mackenzie, lost in her eyes. Dean gave him a sharp kick on the ankle. 

“Oh, right!” said Sam. “Can you tell me something about your potato supplier? I see you’re using Kennebecs . . . ?” 

Mackenzie blinked up at him. “Kennebecs? I . . . I don’t really know anything about that. I can call the manager out here. It’s just, well, everything’s been a little weird around here ever since . . . since Charlie . . .” Her Désirée-pink lips trembled, and she broke off, turning her face away. 

Sam reached out and laid a hand on her wrist. It was cooler than he expected. Cool, smooth, and firm. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You were the one who found him, right? Can you tell us about that?” 

She bit her lip, still avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, I found him two nights ago. It—it was awful. Do we have to talk about it? I don’t see what that has to do with food inspection.” 

“Uh,” said Sam, fumbling his badge. _Jesus, Sam!_

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just standard procedure in these kinds of situations,” he said. “We have to make sure the incident didn’t have anything to do with working conditions. From my understanding, he was killed with company potato skins. Isn’t that right, Murray?” 

“Yeah,” said Sam, grateful for the assist. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Asphyxiation by Russet Burbank skins. And mutilation.” 

Mackenzie covered her mouth with her hand. “Yes,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “With a peeler.” 

Dean puffed out a thoughtful breath through his voluptuous lips. “Russet Burbanks, huh? Murray, didn’t you say—” 

“Can I help you boys with anything?” said a sharp voice. Sam tore his eyes away from Mackenzie, and immediately recognized the manager. He was a man of about fifty, with a sandy mustache and a gut that looked as though it desperately wanted to escape the bonds of his red-and-white striped polo shirt. 

“Oh, hello, Mister, um . . .” said Dean. 

“Herring,” said the manager. “Reginald Herring. I’m the manager. Are you boys with the FSIS? Haven’t I seen you in this store before?” 

Dean smirked. “We may have dropped in once or twice. As I was telling your lovely hostess, we like to pay surprise visits on occasion.” 

Herring rubbed his mustache testily. “Well, I’ll have to take this up with the regional manager. We aren’t due for an inspection for another five months.” 

“Hence ‘surprise,’” said Dean. “As a matter of fact, my partner Murray here spotted something interesting on his last visit. Want to tell the nice man, Murray?” 

Sam reached into the front pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a handful of Kennebec skins. “I found piles of these in your kitchen,” he said, thrusting them under Herring’s nose. “Look familiar?” 

Herring pushed Sam’s outstretched hand aside with his index finger, pursing his lips distastefully. “Yes. Potato skins. And? How did you get into my kitchen, anyway?” 

“We have our ways,” said Sam. “Do you want to tell us where these came from?” 

“They came,” said Herring coldly, “from our potato distributor. You’ll have to talk to them.” 

“Yeah?” said Sam challengingly. “We might just do that. But in the meantime, you mind telling us why you switched from Russets to Kennebecs?” 

Herring was silent for a moment, his mustache twitching. “Talk to the distributor,” he growled. “I don’t have time for this. We’re still playing catch-up after our little . . . incident. Have a look around, gentlemen. Take all the time you need. If you have any other questions, I’m sure my employees will be more than happy to assist you.” He turned on his heel and strode off. 

“So,” said Dean. 

“Yep,” said Sam.


End file.
